


Hush

by the_sky_is_forever



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Murder, Deaf Character, Deaf Enjolras, Fear of Death, Home Invasion, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Horror, Minor Violence, Near Death Experiences, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 06:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sky_is_forever/pseuds/the_sky_is_forever
Summary: Grantaire’s hands move to respond, and then his expression twitches, eyes jumping away from Enjolras’ face, like he’s looking behind him.Enjolras resists the urge to look behind him. ‘What?’Grantaire looks back at him, frowning. ‘Do you have someone over?’ he asks, signing slightly slower than usual.‘No,’ Enjolras replies, slowly.With his boyfriend away in London, Enjolras is home alone. Or so he thinks.





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> Rough plot based off the events of Hush (2016) which is an EXCELLENT horror movie and I highly recommend it.  
> Let me know if there are any more tags you think I should add.

He only just notices the screen of his laptop lit up with a Skype call before it rings out. He rolls his eyes at his own obliviousness and waits for Grantaire to call back, this time clicking accept instantly. Grantaire’s face lights up at the sight of him and he signs a greeting, followed by, ‘Wasn’t sure you were going to notice.’

Enjolras smiles. ‘Hello,’ he signs. ‘How’s  London?’

He picks up his dinner, only just plated up, and his laptop and crosses to the sofa, putting the laptop down on the coffee table and his dinner on his knee, freeing up his hands to sign.

‘Beautiful,’ Grantaire responds. ‘Would be better if you could have come.’

‘No, I’m better off here,’ Enjolras signs. ‘I’d only hold you back, having to translate everything for me.’

‘You know I don’t mind,’ Grantaire reminds him.

‘I know. _I_ mind. It’s your career, I don’t want to get in the way,’ Enjolras signs. ‘I’m fine here getting on with _my_ career.’

Grantaire grins and stretches. It’s hardly late in Paris, and it’s even earlier in London, but Grantaire looks exhausted, bags under his eyes purple, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Enjolras wants to ask but doesn’t want to fuss.

‘How is your career going?’ Grantaire asks, with a grin. ‘Don’t forget to eat that,’ he adds, glancing at Enjolras dinner.

Obediently Enjolras takes a few bites of pasta. ‘I’m getting there,’ Enjolras signs, once he’s eaten a little. ‘I’ll finish this book if it kills me.’

‘And then you can join Combeferre and me, having written a non-fiction book that no one will read,’ Grantaire grins. The corners of his eyes crinkle in his amusement, and he’s so beautiful to Enjolras.

Still, Enjolras frowns. ‘People will read it,’ he defends himself.

Grantaire’s hands move to respond, and then his expression twitches, eyes jumping away from Enjolras’ face, like he’s looking behind him.

Enjolras resists the urge to look behind him. ‘What?’

Grantaire looks back at him, frowning. ‘Do you have someone over?’ he asks, signing slightly slower than usual.

‘No,’ Enjolras replies, slowly.

‘Oh. I thought I heard something. Must have been a neighbour,’ Grantaire signs, worried expression clearing.

Enjolras shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he signs, putting on an innocent expression.

It makes Grantaire roll his eyes and laugh. Enjolras loves that beautiful wide grin, the way he throws his head back, long throat exposed, curls shaking slightly. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t.’

‘Maybe it’s your dumb cat coming home.’

‘Hey! I love that cat,’ Grantaire signs, with an offended look on his face.

‘God only knows why,’ Enjolras replies. ‘You look tired,’ he then points out, giving in and addressing it.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, out-loud, Enjolras catching it on his lips even though he didn’t sign it. ‘Yeah,’ Grantaire admits, slipping back into signing. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well without you.’

‘That’s sweet,’ Enjolras signs, because it is, but, ‘Maybe you should get some sleeping pills?’

‘Probably. I’m coming back in a few days. I’ll manage. I can’t wait to see you,’ Grantaire tells him.

‘You’re seeing me right now,’ Enjolras points out, smirking.

‘Fine. I can’t wait to hold you.’

‘Gay,’ Enjolras signs back.

It makes Grantaire laugh again, and Enjolras knows what Grantaire means. He can’t wait to be wrapped up in Grantaire’s strong arms, even if he’d never admit it out loud like Grantaire can. He wants to run his fingers through Grantaire’s hair.

‘I miss you too,’ Enjolras adds, because a funny response is all well and good, but Grantaire is an affectionate romantic, and Enjolras knows he loves seeing Enjolras sign sweet things to him. ‘The house is quiet without you.’

Grantaire rolls his eyes. ‘You’ve gotta stop using that one,’ he tells Enjolras.

Enjolras grins. ‘No. I think it’s funny.’

‘Of course you do.’ Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and scratches roughly at his head. His hair sticks out wildly when he drops his hand. All Enjolras can see is his shoulders and his head.

‘I want to see you,’ Enjolras tells him. Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and Enjolras can’t help the sound that escapes him, even if he has no idea what noise it was. It makes Grantaire grin, anyway. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Enjolras signs. ‘Just. Let me take a look at you.’

Grantaire clearly doesn’t understand, but he sets the laptop down and stands up, making sure he’s in frame, before giving an uncertain spin. Enjolras’ eyes rake over him, longing.

‘I miss you. I want to touch you,’ Enjolras signs. ‘I wish you were here.’

‘Me too,’ Grantaire admits, flopping back down and pulling the laptop onto his chest. ‘Just a few more days.’

Enjolras nods. ‘I know. I just wish it were sooner.’

‘Yeah… Me too.’

Enjolras pulls a face. ‘My hands are tired. I’m going to do some writing and eat this. I’ll call you later?’

‘Yeah, no problem,’ Grantaire signs. ‘I love you. Talk later.’

‘Bye,’ Enjolras signs, smiling a little sadly, overwhelmed by how much he misses Grantaire. He ends the call and sits there staring at the screen for a moment, finishing off his dinner and not really tasting a single bite.

To stop dwelling, he forces himself to his feet, and goes to make himself a mug of coffee. Decaf, of course. Grantaire would kill him if he drank caffeine at this time in the evening.

It’s only when he’s heading back to the sofa that he notices the front door hanging open.

He stops in his tracks. Looks around the room. He hasn’t been outside all day, and he’s certain it wasn’t open earlier.

Nervously, he goes to shut it.

God he hates not being able to hear. He has no idea when someone opened his door or why they did it.

 Trying to push down the feeling of anxiety, completely unsure of what to do, he goes and sits on the sofa, looking around the room, as though expecting someone to appear any second. A robber, likely. Or something worse.

He’s clutching his coffee to his chest, like it could help him defend himself or something. His whole body is tense and his heart’s pounding a mile a minute. Sweat builds on his skin. Anxiety gnaws at his stomach like a living, breathing animal.

After sitting still, never moving an inch, for ten minutes, his heart rate starts to slow down again. Whoever it was must have left. It could have just been the cat. Or the wind. There’s no reason to assume there’s someone in the house.

He takes a deep breath.

He picks up his laptop and opens the word document of his book.

Maybe he should call someone. He could text Combeferre and ask him to call the police, send an officer round to have a look. But he doesn’t exactly trust the police these days, all it would take is having the wrong officer sent round, they might think _he’s_ the intruder. He might be small and friendly but his dreads don’t exactly endear him to cops. He’d have no way of communicating with them if they assumed the worst.

He forces himself to settle into the sofa, taking a sip of his coffee and breathing in and out deeply. He loses himself in writing, and by the time he’s exhausted enough to go to sleep, it’s left his mind completely.

He puts the mug in the sink and picks up his laptop, calling Grantaire on Skype as he heads to his room, climbing the stairs two at a time, not really watching where he’s going, knowing the route by heart, eyes focussed on the contact picture of Grantaire, waiting for Grantaire to accept the call and appear before him. He puts the laptop down on his bed just as Grantaire finally accepts the call. ‘Hi,’ Enjolras signs cheerily. ‘Just getting ready for bed.’

He pulls off his jeans and kicks them to the side as Grantaire signs his own greeting. ‘How was writing?’

‘Good. I’m really making progress,’ Enjolras signs proudly. He turns away from the laptop to grab his sleeping shirt off the bed. He pulls off his own and swaps it for the other one, rolling his eyes at Grantaire’s staring.

‘Maybe you should keep the shirt off,’ Grantaire signs, one eyebrow raised suggestively.

‘Don’t start,’ Enjolras signs with a grin.

Grantaire’s eyes catch on something over Enjolras’ shoulder, and his face goes pale. Enjolras glances over his shoulder, but nothing’s there, just his open door leading out into the dark hallway.

‘What?’ Enjolras asks.

Grantaire shakes his head. His eyes are wide. ‘I’ve just got to make a quick phone call. Stay on the line, won’t take two seconds.’

‘Ok,’ Enjolras signs back, watching Grantaire pull his phone out and call someone. Grantaire covers his mouth, turning away slightly from the screen, even though his eyes never leave Enjolras. There’s something in his gaze Enjolras doesn’t like. ‘Why don’t you want me to read your lips?’ Enjolras asks, frowning. He glances behind him at the open door, a growing sense of unease building in him.

Grantaire ends the call and smiles at him. Something’s wrong, Enjolras can tell. ‘Go shut your door and lock it, sweetheart,’ Grantaire signs.

‘My bedroom door doesn’t lock,’ Enjolras signs back, confused, glancing back at the door again. ‘What’s going on, R?’

‘Go shut the door, Angel,’ Grantaire tells him.

‘R, tell me what’s going on,’ Enjolras insists.

‘Nothing’s going on. Just please do as I say,’ Grantaire signs.

‘R, you’re scaring me.’

‘There’s no need to be scared, baby. I promise.’

Enjolras pulls a face. ‘You know I hate that nickname.’

Grantaire smiles, and it’s so much more relaxed than a moment ago. He knows Grantaire gets paranoid sometimes. There’s probably nothing wrong at all. ‘I know you do, baby.’

Enjolras rolls his eyes. ‘I’m going to go to bed, ok? I love you.’

He clicks end call, and the picture blacks out on Grantaire’s face looking suddenly terrified. Grantaire calls back instantly, but Enjolras ignores it, pushing his laptop aside and sitting down on the bed to pull off his jeans and click on the bedside lamp.

Once undressed, he crosses to the door to push it closed. He pauses at the doorway, about to look out. A nervous feeling settles in his stomach, and it’s almost like he just _knows_ that if he leans out and looks down the hallway, he’s going to see something terrible.

Nonsense, of course. Grantaire’s paranoia getting to him, that’s all. He pushes the door to and flicks off the light.

And then he remembers the front door.

What if someone’s in the house? What if that’s what Grantaire heard and saw? What if Enjolras isn’t alone?

He shuts the bedroom door fully, fear slicing through him, right to his stomach. What does he do?

He can’t hear. He has no idea if there’s anyone out there, no way of knowing if they’re walking right up to his bedroom door unless they open it, and by then it’ll be far too late.

He goes for his phone in his jeans and come up empty.

He left it in the living room.

Cursing his own stupidity, he grabs his laptop instead, just as the screen lights up with an incoming message. From his own phone.

A sick feeling rises in him as he stares at the notification, warring with himself on whether to open it or not. He swallows tightly and clicks the message bubble.

The chat opens up and a picture loads.

Enjolras knows a sound escapes him, probably one filled with fear.

It’s a selfie, taken in his living room. A masked man, holding a knife stolen from Enjolras’ own kitchen.

He can’t breathe.

With shaking hands he types out a message to the man.

_I won’t tell anyone. My boyfriend is on his way home._

Send message.

Types out another message.

_Grantaire call the police. Send them here. ASAP._

He stares at the second message and then realises. If the man has his phone, he’ll see this message if he sends it.

He deletes the message, heart pounding in his throat. He’s going to be sick. Terror claws at him. He can’t fight off a man with a knife, it’s impossible.

He wishes he were anyone but himself. Grantaire would know what to do, Bahorel could fight the man and have a chance of winning, Joly would never let themself get into a situation like this, Éponine would have a plan already and be ready to kill the man, Courfeyrac could talk his way out of this.

He’s going to die.

A message comes in. From his own phone.

Enjolras sobs when he sees it. Screenshots of his last text conversation with Grantaire. Proof that Grantaire is out of the country.

He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t call the police; he has no way of communicating with them. If he texts a friend and tells them to call the police, the intruder will see and kill him.

He’s going to die.

He tries to think. He can’t stop shaking. He moves to the other side of the bed, staring at the closed door, knowing that the man could be standing just on the other side. He puts his hands over his mouth, staring in horror at the door, desperately trying not to hyperventilate.

He can’t believe he’s going to die. At the hands of a crazed murderer. In his own home. With Grantaire two hundred miles away. Alone and afraid.

He shakily types out another message.

 _Please_.

He sends it, knowing it will do nothing to stop this man from killing him.

He gets back one single word.

 _Beg_.

Enjolras feels his heart stop. He can’t. It won’t make a difference anyway. He’d rather die with some dignity.

But Grantaire would. Oh, Grantaire would be so angry at him for his pride. If there’s any chance at all it will save him, maybe he should do it. Better alive with damaged pride than dead with dignity. A tear rolls down his cheek.

He takes a deep breath. The man must know he’s in his bedroom. If he can get out and get somewhere else while the man is still downstairs, he can hide, last it out. It’s worth a shot.

Another message comes in, another selfie, giving the man’s location away. He’s still downstairs. Enjolras sends a mental thank you to the sky. He’s at a disadvantage, not being able to hear his attacker, but if he can get to the bathroom, the door locks. There’s no escape from there, but it might hold the intruder off while Enjolras chances a call to Combeferre to ask him to call the police.

He makes sure his laptop is on silent before he closes it, tucking it under his arm securely. He doesn’t have long. He has to leave now.

He wastes precious time making sure he closes the door quietly, but for all he knows it was loud in the silence of the house at night. He doesn’t know anything.

He sees a flash of light to his right, where the stairs are, a torch shining up them. It’s only the light he sees, not the man, and Enjolras goes quickly into the nearest room with an open door. It’s not the secure bathroom, but hopefully the man believes he’s in his bedroom.

He leaves the door open, though it pains him to do so, and hides behind it. If the man comes in, maybe he can hit him over the head with his laptop, or something else in the room. He wants to grab the lamp, by far the most solid thing in the room, but he’d have to cross in front of the open door, and he knows it would make too much sound.

He clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle his breathing as the hall light turns on. He quietly opens the laptop.

He gets another message. A picture of his door. He’s out there. Right outside.

And the message comes again.

 _Beg_.

A sob builds inside Enjolras, tears pouring down his cheeks. He can’t breathe. There’s no way he’s silent. The man must be in his room by now. He must see that he’s not there.

Enjolras should have opened his bedroom window, made it look like he risked the two-story jump.

His back is pressed against the wall. He doesn’t know whether to shut his eyes and pretend none of this is happening. He won’t hear anything, of course. If he can’t see either, he won’t know what’s happening til he’s dead. Maybe it would be easier.

He shuts his laptop and adjusts his grip on it, ready to use it as a weapon, uncopied work be damned.

He’s just waiting for the man to appear. His heart won’t stop pounding, and then the man passes right past the door. Enjolras sees his shadow go by, and he chances a peek to see him disappear into the bathroom.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He goes back to his own room.

He slams the door of the room he leaves and quietly closes his bedroom door, thankful that the intruder had shut it so it won’t look suspicious. He probably only made it with seconds to spare.

He retreats to the other side of the room, on the other side of the bed, facing the door. He opens his laptop and collapses to his knees in front of it.

His hands hover over the keyboard, shaking violently.

He probably doesn’t have long. He calls Combeferre.

He kneels watching the call connect, pleading with Combeferre in his mind to pick up.

The screen goes dark.

Enjolras blinks at it in confusion, hand slowly reaching to wiggle the mouse.

The battery died.

Enjolras looks up at the door just in time to see the handle move.

He wants to close his eyes and pretend none of this is happening.

His eyes stay fixed on the door. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

The door swings open. Grantaire always complains that the door is creaky. Enjolras wouldn’t know, but he supposes it’s fitting, since apparently he’s going to die like a character in a horror film.

He stares at the man, chest heaving as he breathes, choked sobs escaping him.

The man stands there, looking at him, hidden by the mask.

He reaches up and with one swift movement, pulls the mask off.

It almost feels like Enjolras should recognise him. With such a grand reveal, he should know the man. It should be someone he thought a friend, even an enemy, but instead it’s a stranger. Someone he’s never seen before. Someone with no reason to kill him.

And here they are, staring each other down across the room.

“Can you read my lips?” the man asks.

Enjolras wipes tears away from his face. There’s blood on the man’s clothes. He’s already killed someone today.

“Can you read my lips?” he repeats.

Slowly, Enjolras nods. The man must have been watching him to know that he’s deaf. He could have been in Enjolras’ house for hours, watching, waiting.

“Good,” the man says. He smiles maliciously. “I’m going to kill you. You know that already, don’t you? Have you accepted your death already? It’s going to hurt. I’m going to make it hurt. I’m going to make you wish you were dead a million times over before I actually kill you. Do you understand me?”

Lip reading is hard at the best of times for Enjolras. It’s even harder when he’s so upset and scared he can hardly think straight. But he understands. He nods. Whimpers. Another tear slides down his face.

Speaking is so difficult for him, he can barely remember what words are supposed to sound like, but he knows the mouth movements for the word he needs.

“Please,” Enjolras tries to say, hoping whatever noise comes out makes sense. It probably doesn’t. “Please,” he repeats, signing it too.

The man grins, and then starts to laugh. He laughs for a long time, and Enjolras simply stands there and cries.

“Pathetic,” the man tells him, and then he’s coming towards Enjolras, and Enjolras is out of time. He scrambles away from the bed, til his back hits the wall, weak and pathetic, curled up at the feet of the man who’s going to slaughter him. The main grabs him by the hair and pulls him to his feet again, pulling him in close and breathing in his face, breath too hot, disgustingly warm.

In his other hand is Enjolras’ knife. It’s so unbearable that it’s his own knife. Enjolras’ whole body goes limp, he can hardly stay on his feet, and he ends up clutching at his own attacker, desperately trying to find a way to make his body stand, to take the pressure off his hair.

He’s dragged through his own house, staggering, the pain from his scalp almost blinding, and he knows he’s got to be letting out the most awful noises in his agony. He wants to wake up. He wants to wake up and this all be a terrible nightmare, and he wants Grantaire to hold him and comfort him, and he never wants to feel this afraid again.

He claws at the man’s arm, feels his fingernails drag through skin, feels it turn slippery with blood, but it doesn’t change anything at all.

He’s thrown onto his living room floor, like he weighs nothing, bruises all over his body from being pulled down the stairs roughly, and he barely has a second to breathe before the man is on top of him, pressing him down into the carpet, pinned under his weight and strength.

Enjolras can’t stop sobbing, so unbearably terrified. He must be screaming something terrible, horrible screams of terror and agony. He lashes out at the man, fist wildly connecting with some part of his attacker, and blinding pain shoots through his wrist.

The knife digs into the joint between his shoulder and his chest.

He shuts his eyes. He can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, and it takes a second, but then, for a moment, he thinks it works. The weight is gone. He blocked it all out. And then someone gently touches his face.

He opens his eyes.

He blinks up at the face hovering over him. At the… police officer looking down on him.

Enjolras gasps for breath, turns his head and sees him.

The man is clearly roaring angrily, shouting abuse at the officer holding him in place against the carpet.

Enjolras lies on the carpet, limp. He curls in on himself, eyes fixed on his would-be-killer, hand cradling his broken wrist, but shock has stopped his tears.

Someone helps Enjolras gently to his feet, and Enjolras simply stares in blank shock at his attacker held in place on the ground. A shock blanket is wrapped around his shoulders. He’s trembling. They’re probably trying to talk to him. He finally finds the face of an officer and, eyes a little unfocused, manages to sign to them that he’s deaf.

Someone helps him sit down on the sofa. His attacker is handcuffed and escorted out. He feels at ends, completely in shock at what happened, how it all changed so fast.

Someone hands him a notepad and pen and shows him a piece of paper with two questions written on.

_What’s your name? Is there someone nearby we can call for you?_

Enjolras writes his name down, adds the fact that this is his house, and then writes Combeferre’s number and hands it back. He sits there numbly, staring at the patch of carpet where he’d been pinned only a few moments ago. A police officer sits beside him, clearly meant to offer him comfort, but at a loss with all communication cut off. A medic wraps his wrist tightly. It mustn’t be broken or they’d do more. Probably.

Enjolras looks up when Combeferre arrives, and the second he sees him, he bursts into tears again. Combeferre lets Enjolras fall into his arms and holds him close while Enjolras cries himself out.

Eventually he has to pull back to talk to him. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No,’ Enjolras signs. It hurts. He winces visibly and adds, ‘My wrist,’ when Combeferre sees the bandage and the flinch. He wipes his face dry with his uninjured hand.

‘Courfeyrac’s outside. They wouldn’t let him in,’ Combeferre explains.

Combeferre drags him in for another hug when Enjolras looks like he might start crying again. ‘I want Courfeyrac here, too,’ Enjolras signs when he gets himself together a bit.

‘I’ll try,’ Combeferre signs, before turning to the police officer nearest. There’s a lot of gesturing and a lot of talk that Enjolras doesn’t even bother trying to follow. Combeferre gets his attention. ‘The guy is about to ask if you want Courfeyrac here. Just look at him and nod when he says something.’

Enjolras waits for the officer to ask him a question, and he nods urgently.

The officer sighs and goes to fetch Courfeyrac.

Enjolras sags into Combeferre, relieved, knowing he can get through anything with his two best friends by his side.

He almost died tonight. He never would have seen them again.

‘I love you,’ Enjolras signs to Combeferre. ‘So much.’

‘I love you too, Enjolras,’ Combeferre signs back, a sad look on his face. ‘I’m so glad I didn’t lose you tonight.’

Enjolras can feel himself tearing up again. ‘I’ve got to stop crying,’ he signs to Combeferre.

‘You nearly died, Enjolras. You can cry as much as you need.’

Combeferre looks up abruptly, and Enjolras follows his gaze to see Courfeyrac arriving. Combeferre wraps his arms around Enjolras while Enjolras and Courfeyrac talk to each other, until all three are simply clinging to one another, sacrificing talking in favour of physical comfort, being so aware that all three are there, that Enjolras is still alive to be sandwiched between his best friends.

‘I need to talk to Grantaire,’ is the first thing Enjolras signs when a police officer comes over to them with an expression that means business.

Combeferre translates, and then signs to Enjolras, ‘They want to take your statement first.’

Enjolras’ heart sinks, but he nods. ‘Ok.’

The room feels weird, all the lights on in the middle of the night, too many strangers wandering around his home, a home that no longer feels secure in any way. Enjolras sits opposite a police detective at the kitchen table. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are in the other room, not allowed to attend. An interpreter sits opposite Enjolras, beside the detective, translating everything said into speech or sign language.

Enjolras tells them everything. Talking to Grantaire, the front door being open, Grantaire’s odd behaviour on the call, the messages from the man, and the attack, everything the man said and did.

The detective tells him that Grantaire was the one who called the police, having seen the man behind Enjolras in their video call. Enjolras isn’t sure how he feels about Grantaire not telling him.

He needs to talk to Grantaire. He needs Grantaire.

As soon as he’s back with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he tells them he needs to call Grantaire.

‘I already told him what happened,’ Courfeyrac signs as he hands over his phone without hesitation, and Enjolras calls Grantaire.

Grantaire picks up almost instantly, and looks relieved when he sees Enjolras’ face. Courfeyrac takes the phone to free Enjolras’ hands, holding it up for the camera.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Enjolras demands. The corners of his mouth are tugging downwards and his eyes are welling up again. He feels so stupid and overwhelmed.

‘I hoped the police would get there before you saw him,’ Grantaire signs. ‘I’m so sorry, Enjolras.’

‘I was so scared. You should have told me you’d called the police. I thought I was going to die,’ Enjolras tells him.

‘I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

Courfeyrac’s politely looking away, so as not to intrude on the conversation, and though Enjolras knows that only he and his friends can understand what he’s saying, he feels so vulnerable and open.

‘Come home,’ he tells Grantaire.

‘I’m in the airport already, sweetheart. I left as soon as you hung up on me,’ Grantaire admits.

‘Ok,’ Enjolras signs. ‘I love you. I need you here.’

‘It’s a short flight. I’ll be with you by six, ok?’ Grantaire asks.

Enjolras nods.

‘I should go find my gate. I’ll see you soon, ok, love?’

 ‘Ok.’

‘I love you,’ Grantaire signs.

‘I love you, too,’ Enjolras replies. His body already longs for the moment when he can fall into Grantaire’s arms and stop thinking for just a few moments.

They both stare at each other for a long moment, until Enjolras finally builds up the will to hang up.

He collapses into Courfeyrac’s waiting arms. Over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, Combeferre meets Enjolras’ eyes. He signs to him, ‘It’s over, Enjolras. He’s been arrested. He’s going to prison. You’re safe. It’s over.’

Enjolras signs back, ‘I know.’

But he looks around his apartment, at the place where he’d been held down by a murderer, and knows he’s never going to feel safe again. Never going to be able to be in a house with an unlocked door, never going to be comfortable being alone with only his eyes to tell him what’s going on around him, never going to have his back to an open door again.

His home is no longer a place of safety, and there’s no going back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't usually write this genre so let me know any comments you might have, tips or advice are especially welcome! I hope you liked it!  
> (my next fic should be back to my fluffy normal style)  
> my writing blog is theskyis_forever and my normal tumblr is nerds-are-cool, though i'm not on there much anymore. you can find me on twitter too @wonderfeuilly  
> Also, if you enjoyed this: [buy me a coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A831F9U)  
> thanks to fra @rabenschwarts and fabian @_Anarchists for reading this over for me and giving me some feedback i love u both


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